Make Me a Sammich, Damnit!

Of course, I waited until about 10p to decide that I was feeling snacky for something sweet and unhealthy. So I decided to make cookies — Almond Roca cookies, to be precise. And I made them, quickly, easily, and with much anticipation of devouring the results. But I didn't plan this very well, because the cookies have to set long enough to cool and let the chocolate bits settle. Now, these cookies consist mainly of some dry ingredients, over two sticks of butter, and several cups of Almond Roca bits and that takes forever to solidify and harden. So while the cookies were done baking at 11p, it was only recently that they were hard enough to cut and eat without making a huge mess. They still make a huge mess (they're half butter, for cookie's sake, and are greasy mo-fos) but damn they're good. Two and a half hours later, my cravings are sated. Ahhhhh. I can go to bed now.

I know I've said this before, but I love to bake. Really, it's just way too fun. I'd bake something every other day if I could. Yet I know that really would not be good for my health, or my dress size, because I would be tempted to eat it. Cookies, cakes, candies, you name it and I probably want to make it or have made it. Yes, I love to cook too, and I do so almost daily — I have to eat, of course, and can't exist solely on baked goods. But there is something about baking that makes me feel so damn domestic. Makes me want to wear an apron and put my hair in curls and tatter around the kitchen on adorable kitten heals humming little songs to myself, immersed in my own world that revolves around the oven. I have impeccable timing when it comes to preparing foods, and rarely use a timer. Dedicated bakers and cooks don't need timers; we use our internal clock, and a good sense of hearing and smell. (Yes, you can hear things cook/bake. Didn't you know?)

I guess cooking meals makes me feel domestic, but in a different way. Baking makes me feel, I dunno, girly, and cooking makes me feel... maternal? House-wifey in a different way than baking does. There is something nurturing about cooking a meal, providing for others a necessity of life, as compared to the pure indulgence and treat of baking. You cook meals for someone you care about — a close friend, a date, a husband. Oh how I long to someday prepare colourful and texture-filled meals for a husband! (No rush, though.) There's an intimacy in cooking, while there's a sense of sharing with baking (because as much as you want to, you really shouldn't eat that whole cake by yourself). As with baking, I never really "learned" how to cook.

My grampa was an excellent cook and loved making new dishes; I often spent summer days at his house, watching cooking shows with thickly-accented European chefs tossing handfuls of this and that into a pot. We saw the preparation of going to the local open-air market, and the final result of how to present an exquisite dish (it's all about the presentation). In my youthful zest for knowledge a lot of this probably stuck with me; I never really started cooking dishes until a few years ago but it came naturally. Measuring spoons could never equal handfuls and pinches and dashes; I measure liquid ingredients in drizzles and seconds of pouring, not in glass cups. (I am a bit more precise in baking, but that's a different game.)

Oh my goodness, "Married with Children" just came on. What eerie timing! Yeah, that show is definitely not a good example of the domestic bliss that can be brought about by a woman in the kitchen. ::shudder:: Look away...